


The Daedalus Factor

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-09
Updated: 2002-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 06:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2nd companion piece to "Paradoxical", in which Lionel hogs the whole fic. *grin/cough* Warning: character death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Daedalus Factor

## The Daedalus Factor

by cheddarandonion

<http://traitorsgate.diaryland.com>

* * *

[According to Brueghel  
When Icarus fell  
It was spring] 

So it came to an end. The disjointed words were visible from the folds of the newspaper, rolled up and tucked between clutching fingers. Long, manicured fingers of a Japanese girl, standing in front of the Pieter Brueghel's painting, on loan to the Metropolis Museum. She stood there squinting at the picture, trying to figure out where was Icarus, the wayward son of a great man (according to some). 

It was Autumn in Metropolis. But it wasn't the son who fell. 

[A farmer was ploughing  
his field  
the whole pageantry] 

She was soon ushered out from the room, with hushed voices and a horde of cleaning materials. The cleaners, in their greys and their caps and their focused eyes swarmed in like a little army. Clearing the dust, clearing the air, clearing the floor. Under one of the wooden benches was a crumpled newspaper. There were footprints on it, but the black bold headings were readable. A male hand, clad in cleaner's gloves reached for it and eyed it fleetingly. The corners of his mouth tugged and he disposed of the paper. 

It was a grand day. The Governor of Kansas will be opening the exhibition. 

[Of the year was   
awake tingling  
near] 

From one of the windows they could see the Governor's car rounding the corner. And from the window, across to the horizon, they could see the shadows cast by LuthorCorp tower. The sun was high in the sky, and the street was full, waving flags and screaming children. The milling people, hotdog sellers and security guards. 

The cleaners rolled the last of their buckets as the Director walked in and gave a once over. They disappeared with his satisfied nod, leaving the hawkish man standing in the middle of cold marble and walls. 

He walked towards the front of the building, onto the street and cleared his throat as the Governor stepped out from his car. Behind, and around, the crowd grew louder, cheers and chanting. On the street, cleared from vehicles a newspaper rag flew past, carried by the soft breeze of wind. 

He stepped forward to greet the Governor, blocking the low flying rag. It tied itself onto his calf and flapped against her thigh. It was brown with dust and soot, creased and crumpled and torn, against his grey slacks and black polished shoes. The black san-serif words, big and bold, readable through the creases and folds, a picture with a grin graced beside it. 

He looked down and snorted softly, and shook her legs and the paper broke free. Continuing its discreet flight down Metropolis road. 

It was a clear day, people rushing to the streets, basking in the sunlight. 

[The edge of the sea  
concerned  
with itself] 

The Director stood tall and smiled a bit, he offered his hand and his voice, a welcome to a guest on a special moment. The rush of crowds followed behind, like rolling waves of sea water, crashing on the beach. The figures disappeared into the bright lights of the museum, and the crowds followed. They marched through the foyer and into the inner rooms, like soldiers into war. The Governor watched them unfurl. 

His eyes met the Director's, his fingers met the ceremonial scissors. 

Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse of an old lady, bent, sitting on a bench, watching the flood of people, watching him. On her lap an neatly folded newspaper. A picture graced the visible quarter of the paper and he could make out the shadows of words and captions. 

He smiled slightly, knew she could see him. She smiled back at him and rose, gingerly, slowly and stood. She placed the newspaper on the bench and walked back towards the multitude of people, abandoning the venue and the hordes, her white hair glistening in the clear light. 

She was taller than some, and shorter than most. And she disappeared in the crowds, beyond the crouds, their faces melting together, forming a wave of chattery noises, dappled with flashes and lightbulbs and news-hunters. 

It was bright, and overwhelming, cool breeze from the air conditioning. The red ribbon parted, less regal than the Red Sea, but then again he was no Moses. 

[Sweating in the sun  
That melted   
the wings' wax] 

A girl, auburn-haired and pink-lipped flopped tiredly on the bench, next to the abandoned newspaper. She reached for it and stared at the picture. Her mother broke from the crowd now milling through the gallery and sat by her, watched her lips created words, reading the bold headings and the lines of caption. 

Her mother read faster than her, and a mild shock met her and was evident in her clear eyes. She had wondered why the towering building seemed deserted, sombre and lifeless. 

Someone was dead, and the arms of Death readily accepted him. The picture showed a man with his confident smile. The letters announced that the man would smile no more on the mortal world. 

She picked up her daughter and the small pudgy fingers dropped the newspaper to the ground. 

[Unsignificantly  
off the coast  
there was] 

His name was in the obituaries that morning, his face on the front page. He was a frontman of one of the biggest companies in Corporate America. His money moved mountains and he waited for no one. Very little people liked him outside basic civility, and even less loved him. His single-minded pursuit painted a picture of a ruthless, loveless person. He was far from unsignificant, though never earth-shattering, a person with power, money and sentiment. A great many facet of his life had shaped and help defined Metropolis. 

He was capable of love, contrary to what the press and people would say. He had a good relationship with his wife, and even though he brought frequent tears in her eyes, he brought joy, laughter and good memories. 

Then there was his son. 

[A splash quite unnoticed  
'Tis was  
Icarus drowning] 

Ambition ruled his life and he could not tolerate weakness. He knew what weakness did to people, he knew what love could bestow. The death of his wife marked his belief with amplified clarity. He drove his son to effectiveness and efficiency. There were times when he hoped he had a better son, one who caused less trouble and more up to his standards. 

But Lex was out of the ordinary, marking him as a Luthor through and through, in his own unique way. He had told Lex time and again that Luthor never settled for normal nor for second best. 

There were times when he watched his son fading, disappearing into the dark. Drifting like the pale white driftwood in Californian streams. His crusade was saving his son from a bleak future. A future with no money, no power. Powerless pauper. 

There were times when he thought that his son was drowning, especially over that Kent boy. 

He understood too late that his son was the one who kept him buoyed, in touch with the reality that the world wasn't perfect, that there were things out of reach, even his. He understood too late, because he was drowning. Falling and drowning, because his son decided to let go. 

He felt the friction-led heat ripped through, snip, snip, snip. Memories flew across his eyes, all tinted with red. Red of sorrow, red of regrets. And they faded to black. 

It was Daedalus this time, not Icarus, who flew too high. Higher than he was allowed to go. Red liquid trailed down his face, like molten wax. 

[... How everything turns away  
Quite leisurely from the disaster; The ploughman may have heard the splash, the forsaken cry But for him it was not an important failure, the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out off the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on] 

**-FIN-**

Note:  
1\. "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" (1960) by William Carlos Williams 2\. "Icarus" (1940) by W. H. Auden  
3\. The painting was "Fall of Icarus" (or "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus") c.1558 by Pieter Brueghel, Museum of Fine Arts, Brussels. <http://www.wordsworth2.net/resource/icarus/icarbgbr.htm> 4\. Companion piece to "Paradoxical" and "The Love We're After". Although the former is more true than the latter. 


End file.
